Chapter 16 Arthur
Chapter sixteen
Arthur
The commute home is predictable—seventeen minutes with average traffic, twenty-three if there's construction. Today it's seventeen.
The gates recognize my car and part smoothly. The house stands just as I left it this morning—composed, symmetrical, impervious.
Unchanged.
Inside, the foyer is quiet. The living room empty. I set my keys in their designated tray, loosen my tie exactly one inch.
Then I hear it—voices from the kitchen. One of them Lindsay's.
I slow without deciding to.
I find her at the kitchen table, but it takes me a moment to process what I'm seeing.
Lindsay has her laptop open, phone face-up beside it, notifications stacking faster than she can clear them.
She isn't frantic. She's trying to be strategic—scrolling, pausing, rereading, deleting.
But the volume alone makes her look like she's standing in shallow water, fighting the undertow.
I set my briefcase down and watch for a moment longer than necessary.
She glances up when she senses me there. I see it in her eyes. She's tired.
"This isn't going to stop," I say. I keep my voice even. "Not on its own."
Lindsay exhales. "I'm noticing."
She's wearing that pink hoodie again—the one covered in rhinestones or sequins or whatever makes it catch light like that. It's out of place in my kitchen with its clean lines and neutral palette. But I don't comment on it. Not today.
"How long have you been at this?" I ask, moving closer.
"Three hours? Four?" She shrugs one shoulder. "I stopped counting."
Her screen shows a mess of open tabs—social media accounts, email, messaging platforms I don't recognize. Every few seconds, something new pops up. A name. A request. A comment. All demanding attention.
I don't take the phone from her hand. I don't start listing solutions like I'm presenting in a boardroom. I'm not interested in becoming her daily system administrator.
I call Steven.
He arrives within minutes, as if he's been waiting in the walls. That's his job. Head of staff means the house functions whether I'm present or not.
Steven is mid-forties, discreet, composed. He wears confidence like a tailored suit. He gives Lindsay a polite nod.
"Steven," I say, "I need this stabilized. Quietly. Immediately." I gesture toward the devices.
Steven takes in the situation with one glance. The missed calls. The message requests. The unknown numbers. The emails flagged urgent that aren't urgent at all.
He doesn't react emotionally. He simply categorizes.
As do I.
Lindsay watches him, then me. "Is everyone in your world named something serious?" she asks.
Steven's mouth tightens as if he's not sure whether that's humor or a test.
"I'll call you Steve," she adds brightly, like she's granting him something.
I wait for the correction. Steven has never been "Steve" to anyone in this house. Or probably anywhere else.
But Steven doesn't correct her, so I let it go.
"Steven," I say, "I want a head of staff assigned to Lindsay. Someone competent. Discreet. Vetted. Not impressed by money."
Lindsay straightens. "A head of staff?" Her tone isn't offended, but I hear the edge. The implication that she's about to become a project.
Before she can spiral into it, I add the part that matters. The part I want her to hear.
"Your staff will answer to you," I don’t look at her when I say it, I'm still looking at the mess. "Not me."
Steven's gaze flicks to mine—small approval, almost invisible. He understands the difference between support and control. He understands what I'm trying to do, even if Lindsay doesn't yet.
Lindsay's expression shifts, her suspicion softening into something more cautious. Not trust. Not yet. But less braced.
Steven asks, "Do you have preferences?"
Lindsay hesitates, then says, "Someone who won't call me ma'am like I'm eighty."
Steven nods as if that's perfectly reasonable.
"And also," Lindsay adds, "someone who doesn't think my clothes are trashy."
That catches my attention. I look at Steven, whose expression reveals nothing.
"Of course," he says smoothly. "I'll begin interviews."
Lindsay's shoulders relax slightly. She closes one of the tabs on her screen. Then another.
"In the meantime," Steven continues, "I can have your accounts temporarily managed. We can filter messages through a secure server that flags priorities and contains the rest."
Lindsay considers this. "Will I still see everything?"
"If you wish to," Steven replies. "But you won't have to."
She nods slowly. "Okay. Let's try that."
Steven takes her devices one by one, explaining each step as he goes. Setting up filters. Creating barriers. Building a system that lets her control what reaches her and when.
I watch the process with detached interest, and a flicker of something less comfortable at how easily it works.
Lindsay seems to relax as the notifications slow, then stop altogether.
Her shoulders drop, the tension leaving her.
She tests the system, sending herself a message that arrives properly flagged and sorted.
"That's impressive," she admits.
"It's temporary," Steven assures her. "Until we find someone who can manage this to your specifications."
Lindsay nods, then glances at me. There's something in her expression I can't quite identify. Relief, certainly. But something else too. Something cautious and considering.
"Thank you," she says, looking between Steven and me.
I nod once, acknowledging.
Later, Henry wanders into the kitchen like he owns it. He stops short when he sees all three of us, the devices, the quiet intensity.
"What's going on?" he asks.
"Logistics," I say. "Nothing for you to worry about."
Henry accepts that for about three seconds. Then he angles toward Lindsay, and asks her what she's doing.
She explains in simple terms—too many messages, too much noise, so they're putting up a filter.
Henry nods like that makes sense in his world. Then he says, casual, like it's unrelated, "Dad, can you buy me a ticket to CAMICon?"
The request comes out of nowhere.
I don't want to discuss it. I don't want to schedule it. I don't want to add chaos to a life I'm trying to stabilize.
"We'll see," I reply.
It ends the conversation.
Henry shrugs, satisfied, already moving on. He opens the refrigerator, pulls out an apple, then disappears back toward his room.
Lindsay's eyes flick to mine once Henry leaves. "I'm planning on going to CAMICon. I could take him?"
The offer surprises me. Lindsay has always been generous, but this offer implies she's planning ahead. Thinking about next week, next month. As if this arrangement might actually last.
“There are too many variables,” I say. “I don’t suggest either of you go.”
Steven's gaze flicks to mine, quick and unreadable.
Lindsay doesn't argue, but I see the brief flash of determination cross her face before she turns back to her now-quiet devices.
I tell myself Henry will forget. That by next week, CAMICon will be replaced by some other interest, some other request. Children's attention spans are mercifully short.
But as Lindsay's phone stays quiet for the first time in days, I realize something else is happening too—
This agreement is working.
And more smoothly than I expected.
The filters. The management. The structure. All doing exactly what they're supposed to do: Creating space. Reducing noise. Making Lindsay's life more navigable.
And if it keeps working, I'm going to have to face the one risk I can't outsource.
Her.
Lindsay looks at me, her expression open in a way that makes me shift my weight.
I watch her testing the new filters on her phone, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth as she discovers how much control she suddenly has.
She catches me looking and lifts one eyebrow slightly. The gesture is disarming. "What?"
"Nothing," I say, turning away. "I have work to finish."
I retreat to my office, close the door, and try to focus on the reports waiting in my inbox. But my mind keeps circling back to the kitchen. To Lindsay in that ridiculous hoodie, her relief when the notifications stopped, her offer to take Henry to CAMICon.
I tell myself this is temporary. That we're still figuring out parameters. That marriage is a contract, not an invasion.
But some part of me knows better.
Some part of me recognizes that I've let someone into my life who doesn't follow my rules. Who wears sparkly clothes in my muted house.
Who calls Steven "Steve" without permission.
Who offers to take my son places I wouldn't ever consider going.
I've built systems to manage every aspect of my life—financial, professional, personal. Clean lines. Predictable outcomes.
Lindsay isn't a system.
And that's a real risk.
Not her money. Not her fame. Not even her inexperience with both.
The real risk is that I might actually like having her here.
And that was never part of the plan.